


There Is Nothing Like The Truth Of The Fool

by Leyenn



Category: Babylon 5, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-04
Updated: 2010-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-05 19:32:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leyenn/pseuds/Leyenn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An archeolinguist and a Trickster god step into a dream...</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Is Nothing Like The Truth Of The Fool

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kakodaimon for a Multiverse challenge.

In his dream there is a flash of light, blinding and perfect in every way. A perfect child-drawn Bethlehem star of white that fades into the image of a perfect man.

It isn't as if he's never been attracted to men. He has, on occasion. Sheridan has pictures of her husband tacked around the science station, and he'd admit the man - blond haired, blue eyes, grin wider than an asteroid field, heroic in all the right ways - well, he's not what anyone would consider a bad luck charm.

Nothing ever comes of those thoughts, so he's always ignored them. Relegated them to dreams. Everything is dreams now, dreams of what should be, nightmares of what he needs and wants and what isn't.

Now a dream stands in front of him in the form of a man, dressed in blood-red and black, with eyes that laugh at him through the darkness of his cabin. He knows that this is a dream, even as he rises from the bunk, because he feels warm inside. He only ever feels warm in his dreams, now.

"What do you want?"

"Well, how odd. That was supposed to be my question." The man smiles, and it's a dirty smile, smeared with mocking laughter. "They'll like you, when you get there."

"You're not one of the crew." He stands, rounding this man, this perfect man standing in the exact center of his cabin, wordless and smirking. "Who are you?"

"Ah, ah." The man raises a hand, ticking a finger to and fro, an inch or less from his cheek. "Now now, you shouldn't go asking questions like that. Not in their space. You never know how they'll take it. Things might go badly for you."

He stares. There seems little else to do. The man is inches away, and although there's warmth inside his chest, grasping at his heart, there is no heat of breath on his skin.

"'They'?"

"You have no idea, do you?" No breath, but there is laughter, twinkling and chaotic in his ears, cool on his skin. "No idea where you're going, or what you'll see. Oh, you're in for a treat!"

He's beginning to believe that this dream is slightly unhinged, or at least more so than any dream should be. "And you won't be kind enough to tell me about it, I suppose?"

"Why spoil the fun?" There is no sanity at all in those eyes now, but there are promises, whispers of desire, tendrils at his mind. "They can show you wonders, my friend. They can promise you... anything in the world you desire. If you please them enough."

His throat fills; in split, endless seconds, as the man's liquid voice speaks those words he sees his dreams, his nightmares, all of it in his head in crystal clarity. He sees Io and the gate exploding, and their ship, oh god-

And then - for the first time - he sees it all stop.

He chokes. He doesn't speak. There's no need of it, when this man, this - being, in front of him, the dream that tells him how to end all dreams. When this being knows.

"Oh yes. You could have them back again. Imagine, if it had never happened, my friend. Imagine, when you wake up from this lovely dream of me, she could be with you - curled up under your arm, kissing your neck, clutching your skin, whispering your name while you-"

"Stop!" His tongue feels thick. "Stop it, whoever you are. No one can do that." He has no tears, but still he has pain. There is always the pain behind the smile. "Don't tell me things that are impossible."

"Ah, my friend. Mister - Morden, they call you, on this little ship of yours, don't they?" The terrifying man - and he is terrifying now, when he steps closer, bearing thoughts like these - clucks his tongue in a disgust that's none too faint. "Such a pitiful little tin can. Jean-Luc would despair."

He wonders, if Jean-Luc is this man's lover. If the thought would make him feel safer, or more afraid. Of what, he barely knows - the man, or the vivid images he paints? Can men in dreams be telepaths, reading the very thoughts they spring from?

"You're insane." He reaches back for the bed. Alice in Hell, peering through the keyhole to wake her own self from the nightmare. Is he still asleep there, where his dream can't see?

"I am omnipotent, Mister Morden." The man has a smile that speaks of playing planets like marbles, spinning wonders from nothingness. A dark smile that might never stop. "I could bring them back to you, if I so chose. I don't, of course." He knows he will never stop hearing that smile, laughing at him. "It's much more interesting to let them have their way. They will like you... they might even have a use for you. And their rewards will be far beyond your imagining. To have them back with you? That's just the beginning."

He tries not to know that those words are a warning, as much as a promise. "Who _are_ you?"

"And I thought you might be more of an amusement than that Sheridan woman. You're the linguist - don't you even read your own history? I was - oh, and I still am, I'm sure, you people are so persistent - Loki, Trickster, Kwaku Anansi, Puck, the Monkey King. Although I never did like that last one, myself. Not nearly regal enough for one such as myself, I'm sure you'll agree." But he gives no time for agreement, or otherwise. "Ah. But you can call me Q, if that's any easier for your primitive little mind to understand."

He doesn't know what he should say, and doesn't. The dream calling himself Q smirks at his confusion, like grinning at a piece of clay moulded from his own, perfect, fingers.

"Well, well, I must be going. They don't like to see me get too close, it unnerves them. And anyhow, if I told you everything, what fun would there be when you get there?"

And now he finds that he can't speak, while the man, the dream, the being called Loki, Trickster, the Q, clicks his fingers and summons the light to envelop him again.

In the darkness that follows he can only crawl back to the bunk, too small for him and too cold and lonely. Imagines he can feel her under his arm, her breath - and hers would be warm... oh it used to be so warm... Imagines their child, his joy, hearing her laugh again, just once... just once...

He closes his eyes and wakes, screaming.

  


*

  



End file.
